


An Awful Pleasure

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She should hate him. She does hate him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Awful Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alayne_StoneColdFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/gifts).



His fingers had a habit of resting on her for a bit too long.

Just a flick of the wrist brought them to her waist, to the small of her back. The pads would graze over the silks there, trying to capture some of the heat that lingered beneath. They left a burning path in their wake, raising pricks on her skin, sending a flush running up her neck. A tease it always was, a challenge, a prelude to something more.

Their time in the Vale was filled with moments such as these, passages of great import undertaken in the harsh stare of their peers. Sansa had not thought that such a potential audience could enhance the already deeply uncomfortable, profoundly exhilarating feelings that his touch created in her, but she was proven wrong. In the heat of the halls, among the sounds of the rushes and a household preparing for a defense, she let him have far too much.

At night she would retreat to her rooms, chambers she should share with her husband were he not on the field, had he not left her in this rehearsal of widowhood. She would retreat and when she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass her ivory skin would be as crimson as freshly spilled blood.

(Remnants of that would still linger hours later, and how Petyr _laughed_ ).

He always left as dawn broke, leaving her in the profoundly unsettled state in which she would pass the day. When they met each other in the light, in the halls and rooms of the too-large Gates, her throat would close, her eyes would snap to attention, and she would lean into his touch.

—

“Are you thinking of him?”

It was a question spoken after a prolonged silence, seeming to crack the cold, dry air with its precise wording. Sansa had been busing herself with some parchment, staring at the ink without reading. It was growing harder and harder to concentrate with him in the room, especially when his tone of voice let her know he did not have politics on his mind.

Petyr was behind her as he spoke, though she had not heard his step. His breath was hot on her neck and she could smell the wine, the tartness that came with a second-best vintage. The finest was reserved for guests, for schemes.

Sansa felt a familiar sensation in her throat, as if her whole being was closing down. And yet still she did not retreat, despite the fact that her mind was telling her that nothing would be safer. She rose her gaze to the frost covered window, looked at the two of them in the reflection. Petyr was an inch or so shorter than her, his lips just below her ear. He was not yet touching her skin but his fingers were making familiar patterns along her silks.

There was still light outside, and the household was full of the normal, daytime sounds. Sansa swallowed, hoping that would do something to control the beating in her chest, and made a quarter turn so that she could meet his gaze, somewhat. Doing so caused her to brush against him and she held herself there, in the all-to-familiar warmth.

“I do.” _I’m not._ “Does it concern you, that I think of my husband?”

Petyr laughed, bitterness seeping through the humor. He took a step back but still his hand remained, now pressed at her side, as if telling her he was more than just some memory. “Why should it concern me? Surely he does not occupy your thoughts in the same way I do.”

Sansa turned away; she could feel the heat in her skin. This was a feeling that she was unaccustomed to in the day, and it seemed as if Petyr enjoyed the discomfort he was able to bring out of her. He smiled, his lips curling into an utterly wicked grin that did something to her she would never be able to properly express. She felt a warm rush of excitement, coiled with the shame.

He did not drink often, though she found that he tended to over-indulge with her. It was something she made note of for future reference, though she was not exactly sure when she would need that information.

“Petyr…” His name was spoken as a warning, as a word of caution, and yet still she did nothing to discourage him. She did not move from him, she kept her lips close to his. It was awful, truly awful, what he had done to her.

And she returned to him, again and again, night after night, searching for defilement. She let him have his way and then bathed herself till her skin was raw, perfumed herself till she smelled nothing of him. It was a dance to be performed in the darkness, a weakness to be indulged in only when they were alone, something to ease her through the late hours when it became completely clear to her what exactly she had become.

He took his name as an invitation, and perhaps it was. She certainly did nothing to stop him when his lips found her neck, grazing over the pulse-point there. Her own hands rested on his back, lighter than his but still locking him into place. He could surely feel the beat of her heart, a rapid pound that betrayed her completely, and he smiled against her skin in his victory. Sansa bared her throat, head thrown back, eyes shut so that she could pretend this was night.

 _This is awful. Just awful._ The voice in her head was growing fainter as it spoke its refrain of shame, buried under the tingling desire that he awoke in her. Perhaps this night he would punish her and she would be able to drown out the guilt once more.

Petyr’s hand was working its way up her skirt, his other on the small of her back, guiding her against the desk. Fingers were dancing up the soft wool of her stockings, searching for their prize. He was muttering against her skin, words of reprimand and softness, _what a wicked girl you are Sansa, I need you so._ His digits found their mark soon enough, pushing aside smallclothes to touch at her bare lips. He laughed into her skin when he found her already soaked, the pads of his fingers dipping into her folds, entering her without a word.

She bucked against his hand, searching for some awful release. Petyr’s breath was hot on her, the press of his cock through his breeches unmistakable. She wondered, briefly, for how long he had been hard, if this had been his goal when he had entered this room, if indeed he had _had_ a goal. Had this been sudden, this act she now found herself sighing into? Had he intended to finger her against his desk like a common whore, make her come in the light for once? Or had he been unable to help himself from a taste, from letting her know exactly who it was who owned her?

She would hate him if she did not need him, in more ways than one.

He knew exactly how to tease her to get her off and he was holding her back, working over her just enough to give her some pleasure but not allowing her to come just now. His lips were at her breast now, his hips a constant friction against her and she wondered if this would end with her break, or if he would bend her over this desk and take her there, if he would see that as victory. Or if, cruelest of all, he would deny her her release and leave the room with that awful smile on his lips.

She was thinking all this when she became suddenly aware of another figure in the room. A familiar face.

Myranda stood in the doorway, hand on the latch, mouth open as wide as her eyes. And why should she not wear that expression? Sansa was pressed against a desk, her legs open for the man who had been her false father, shaming her husband as she ground against him.

It all seemed to happen at once. The other woman made a noise, a mix of shock and disgust and excitement. Sansa shoved Petyr away, casting her eyes to his shoulder so she did not need to see the hurt that lay there. His head snapped around, just in time to see the thick frame, the flurry of skirts as they were left alone, once more.

Everything seemed to grow silent and cold. Sansa smoothed down her dress, the ache between her legs painful.

The shock did not seem to last in Petyr for long. He reached down to grasp her chin, pulling it so that she was forced to meet his gaze. His grey eyes were wide, his mouth almost a snarl, but there was pleasure in his voice. _This was where he shined._

“I think I will leave her to you, sweetling. Make sure she cannot speak.” There was a finality to his words and Sansa knew exactly what he was implying. She could feel the darkness in his voice; it settled on her chest, an awful reality.

She wanted to slap him, she wanted to spit in his face. But she couldn’t, she needed him.

She nodded briskly, and prepared herself.


End file.
